


The Refraction of Light

by quilapayuna



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Westeros, Butterfly Effect, Canon-Typical Violence, Class Issues, Coming of Age, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Greenseers & Greensight (A Song of Ice and Fire), Masturbation, Multiple Plots, Orphans, POV AU Sansa Stark, POV Canon Sandor Clegane, Sexual Assault, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Westerosi Politics, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quilapayuna/pseuds/quilapayuna
Summary: The year is 299 AC. Bran the Shipwright made it across the Sunset Sea and Torrhen did not kneel.Sansa Snow is an orphan that has accepted from an early age that she'd have to claw and tear her way through life. So what does it mean when she begins to dream of a frilly younger Sansa who fancies herself a Stark? If nothing else, conflicting feelings about one Sandor Clegane serves as the one singularity for both of them to bond over.Whether this younger self is a figment of a lucid dream or something more, Snow will help the girl navigate her own treacherous journey. As they make friends along the way, they'll both discover uncomfortable truths about their respective realities as well as themselves.
Relationships: Khal Drogo/Daenerys Targaryen, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

A crisp winter dawn witnessed the birth of an auburn-haired girl. She was callously left on the footsteps of an orphanage in the morning’s chill. Her hair touched by fire was radiant against the icy frost, alight with the colours of the sunrise. Sansa _,_ the septas named her.

To Sansa it seemed like eons ago that she had once lived in the quiet winter highlands of Noruora, a childhood that had been full of snow and wonder. Despite growing up without a biological family, she had wanted for nothing in those early days. The septas were kind albeit strict but warm-hearted providing hearty meals, warm beds, and an overall optimism on life.

That all took a turn when Septa Unella became head of the orphanage; a fervently religious woman with no room in her heart but for the godly righteousness that all but consumed her. No one was good enough, _holy_ enough, for Septa Unella. Orphans who were already marked as unwanted by society, were especially not blessed enough hardest they may try to be good children.

Noruora being so cold and far from the rest of Westeros, was low in population density. There were few families in want of adopting or fostering children. _Mother, font of mercy_ , Sansa would pray to save them all meanwhile funding was cutback with each passing year. In those days Sansa had prayed very hard to be the perfect child, to appease Septa Unella, and if the Mother was good, to one day be the perfect daughter to a kind-hearted family. She prayed for the other children as well whose names she could no longer recall.

One day the Seven saw it fit to answer Sansa’s prayers, at least in part. Within the ironies of life, as Sansa soon learned, if there were gods, they were not very good listeners. Whilst the orphanage had begun to slowly suffocate Sansa with the overbearing weight of the Seven, a lady of copper hair came to visit appearing like the Mother herself. The lady had been nice to all the children but when she laid eyes on Sansa she knew—Sansa knew, that this had to be it. She would finally have a mother, a family! In truth, Lysa or Auntie Lysa as she would learn to call her, became Sansa's foster carer. With Septa Unellla’s consent, that was the last she saw of Noruora. It would also be the last of her childhood as she would shortly realise after.

Auntie Lysa lived in the Eyrie, a green hilly and stone filled land with unforgiving winds. It was beautiful in its own unique way, with vivid landscapes and slightly wild. Sansa liked it well enough then, she had only contempt for it now thinking back on it. The woman who had appeared like a blessing turned out to be horrendously unstable, ultimately a curse. More than a daughter, the woman had wanted a caretaker for her son, Robin.

In retrospect Sansa did not believe Lysa to be a bad mother, at least not to her own son. The woman was maternal and it was clear that her son with mental disabilities was her adoration and Sansa could find no fault in that. But Auntie Lysa had also made it profoundly clear that as maternal as she was, she had basic needs. Those needs were fuelled, as well as exploited, by Lord Petyr Baelish. Many knew him as Little Finger, a man whom owned a number of properties across several cities as well as an infamous Gentleman’s Club in King's Landing.

Sansa always felt uncomfortable around Lord Baelish who she could tell held intentions which were more disingenuous than he portrayed. Auntie Lysa had inherited a generous fortune from her late husband who had met a tragic end from grippe. That Little Finger had his fingers in Auntie Lysa's finances only made him appear more manipulative. At first, Sansa thought little of the middle aged man, finding him a bit greasy with more than a hint of inauthenticity in his character. His interest in her however, became the beginning of Sansa’s living hell.

In those days Sansa still prayed, but less. Her time with Sweetrobin, as Auntie Lysa called her son, made it clear that if there was a Mother watching over them then she was certainly cruel. For it was cruel to allow the existence of someone so feeble and defenceless depend on an unstable woman with an all too exploitable libido. What was worse was that Auntie Lysa neither paused nor questioned what Sansa or Sweetrobin thought of the overly enthusiastic screams that resonated throughout the brick house. Sansa clearly remembered as the sickly boy would become agitated and even angered to hear the noises Auntie Lysa and Little Finger made behind closed doors.

Sansa too found it deeply disturbing sharing her headphones with the Sweetrobin who was happy to drown the sounds with the lively Dornish music she had become so fond of.

Auntie Lysa's lack of discretion and boundaries was in itself unliveable but it was nothing to the trouble that rose when Petyr Baelish began to take note of her pubescent growth spurt.

Strangely even now Sansa could not recall reaching out to any friends in the Eyrie, much like her recollection of Noruora. She did remembered interacting with others but their faces were now a blur and whatever socialising she had partaken in, now a faded memory. Only recently did Sansa understand it was part of a defence mechanism to block out memories. What she couldn’t understand was why her mind wanted to strongly hold on to the painful ones…like when Petyr Baelish had gone into her room the morning after he had spent it with Auntie Lysa.

Not certain at first, Sansa had thought she was dreaming, dreaming of someone tickling her in set places where it agitated her more than anything. Half asleep she had moved and curled up on her side. Yet the tickling came back but this time it was clear that she was not dreaming, she had felt hands on her backside, a petting and then a tugging on her smallclothes and fingers rubbing against her nether regions. She had lied still startled by the revelation that she was not asleep and that the sound of light panting and wetness could be heard from behind her. She curled herself further into a ball and tightened the sheets around her clenching her already closed eyes.

The vile panting stopped as did the the light petting. An almost imperceptible sound of footsteps could be heard fading away. When she turned around, there was no one. If her mind would have let her, she could have pretended it never happened but what followed next only confirmed her suspicions. Excited moaning from Auntie Lysa’s room, more rigorous than usual panting could be heard through the not so thin walls. The activity down the hall came to a stop with Auntie Lysa screaming out her lover’s name followed by a pronounced masculine groan.

Sansa sobbed into her pillow that morning, praying to the Maiden that it would all go away. She prayed for someone to take her away from this mess of a home that was anything but the family she had so vehemently begged for. She prayed for Sweetrobin to find a decent fate and for the Maiden to protect his innocence.

She did not pray to the Mother.

After that morning Sansa, became paranoid, making sure to lock her door before going to sleep. One evening Sansa had let Sweetrobin build a puzzle in her room late into the night as she studied for an exam. Forgetting to properly lock the door when she had gone to bed, she was startled in the middle of the night partially by her anxiety for her exam and partly because of the strange breathing she could make out right outside her door. The door was now partially open and the familiar sounds of panting and wetness made it to her ears, Sansa had fallen asleep in a disarray with a sleeveless tunic that was now pushed up because of her restless sleep and the bottom of her breasts sticking out. Neither sexy nor sensuous, her smallclothes were wedged up between the crack of her ass but it was clearly enough for Little Finger to have his mind wander.

That was the last night she spent in the Eyrie for Auntie Lysa had thought of getting a cup of water making her way down the hall when she caught Little Finger red handed: cock in his hand, mouth parted as he stroked himself. Any other woman, any other _mother_ , would have been outraged and disgusted at him. Auntie Lysa had been furious and outraged at _her_ for “tempting” him with the nightclothes she wore to bed. The older woman had hysterically pulled her from the bed by the hair, screaming at her about how she was an “ungrateful slut” had wormed herself into their home to destroy _her_ “family”.

Sansa did not need further motivation to leave that night. With the clothes she had hastily put on and some coin she had taken—money which was originally to buy things for Sweetrobin when Auntie Lysa was out—she made her way to the Central Station and bought herself the cheapest _liwa_ ticket en route to the capital.

It was a long ride to King's Landing. Sansa went from seething fury to quiet rage to eventual despair in the span of her trip. The beginning of many emotional upheavals, Sansa learned that while ultimately unsustainable, it was best to stay angry than to fall into melancholy. After all, Sansa Snow had a lot to be sad about: about her abandonment, Septa Unella, Auntie Lysa, Petyr Baelish and the gods; especially the gods. She had been pious her whole life, devote to the Seven. The Seven who were there to oversee the little children as her childhood hymns so cruelly reminded her. Did the Seven care about her when her biological parents left her in the frost? Did the Seven care if Little Finger perversely pleased himself while inappropriately watching, _molesting_ her? Did the Seven care about Sweetrobin, left to an insane mother and perverted manipulative sociopath? Not enough, clearly.

“Fuck the gods,” muttered Sansa under her breath with her hands in her pockets, clenching her coin pouch, her dark cowl covering her face, and a twinge of guilt lingering in her stomach as she thought of the sickly boy she had left-behind. _You couldn’t stay…you had to go…there was nothing you could have done._ They were the last thoughts that lulled her to sleep on that long _liwa_ ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> liwa - light wagon
> 
> This is currently taking place in an AU timeline that is not precisely modern but benefits from technological advances made possible by key discoveries within the AU timeline.
> 
> Please don't be shy and let me know your thoughts if you've enjoyed it. Constructive criticism is welcomed too.


	2. The Rusty Armour

_City of Megrana, 6 years later_

They had told her that _Khalasar_ served the best morning brews in all of Megrana. It had not taken long for her to realise why that was true. The brews were undoubtedly good, perhaps better than most teahouses in the city but the service was also duly _noted,_ as she eyed the barista.

It felt like an eternity had passed between her life before arriving to Megrana and now. Sansa had built a good life for herself in this beautiful ancient city. It was small yet full of history, and above all, secrets. An intersection between East and West with influences from all over, Sansa was in awe of it, feeling safe among the motley crowd of people, inscrutable even. On some level she could acknowledge that her life had been about running away, escaping from lives she didn’t want or accept. Sometimes it would involve physically escaping like when she left the Eyrie, sometimes it had been only in her thoughts. Memories of when she would pray to the Seven, to the Mother, came to mind. She had always wanted to be elsewhere.

Megrana had been the first place that felt completely different, felt comfortable and welcoming. She could even say it was _home._ The thought of fresh snow and crisp highland air came to mind as well but that was eons ago. So much time had passed since then. There was nothing for her there. Nothing but the reminder that she was alone in this world and she certainly was now—but it was her choice.

Not one to dwell on the past, particularly on her naive-self, Sansa was surprised by her own thoughts. In fact it was the first time in many years that she had let herself think about the Eyrie or Noruora. After leaving King's Landing, she had never looked back. The capital had been another harsh lesson in life although entirely different from her experience in the Eyrie. Sansa pushed the memories aside with a frown.

She focused on the smell emanating from the warm _tiinua_ in front of her, a dark brew made from figs and topped with sheep’s milk. The teahouse today was bustling with people but she had managed to find a seat at the bar. The barista was a tall man with bulging muscles, copper skin, dark hair, dark eyes…he was certainly the epitome of ‘tall, dark, and handsome’. Sansa smiled at him. She would be lying to herself that she only came for the morning brews…she and the other seventy percent of the clientele. But the brews were _good_. The view certainly made it even better.

The tall man was also very calm and collected, by all means he had an intimidating build but his cool and quiet demeanour was soothing. Sansa often found herself losing track of time here, ending up downing her _tiinua_ in order to rush her way to lecture. The barista would smile and say some enigmatic phrase like, ‘best to recount stories and not minutes’. Sansa would give a polite laugh and jolt to class feeling queasy from downing so much of the strong beverage in a single go.

Today she was in no rush. She was there to meet with a student she had begun to tutor in the Common Tongue, Westerosi. Sansa, who was now in her first year studying at the Citadel, had been doing a number of odd jobs in Megrana to finance her studies and board. Tutoring was partially good will, partially a way of giving back to the organisation, the _lady_ , that had helped her settle in Megrana—Lady Olenna. The elderly woman was quick-witted, sassy and sharp-tongued. She also happened to be the head mistress of Megrana’s orphanage. And she was everything Septa Unella was not: cynical, jaded and godless. Lady Olenna did not care about the Seven, or any god for that matter, and she certainly did not care about holiness.

‘The pious only shape history when they have the right connections and the right sex,’ she had once told Sansa. ‘Otherwise, nobody cares.’ The septas that taught and took care of the orphans felt torn between outrage and awkwardness when she was around. Lady Olenna’s words were frequently brutal and left the children and septas alike—dumbfound.

Her student, Arya Wulf, walked into the teahouse. She too was an orphan. The girl had a long face, grey eyes, and dark hair. She was more or less plain to look at but her gaze was striking and unnerving. Sansa felt the girl could look right through her but it was also hard to look away.

Sansa recalled asking the other orphan why her last name was not Storm or Sand. The younger girl shrugged at that, “Lady Olenna said our parents had unburdened us from carrying their name so it would be stupid to be burdened by society in that regard. We choose our own names. Besides I don’t even know where I was born.”

“Why choose Wulf?”

“Don’t know", she shrugged. "I like wolves. I didn’t have a pack so guess I feel like a lone wolf.”

Sansa laughed dryly at that, “You and every other orphan.”

Arya signalled over to the copper-skinned barista. “How’s it going Drogo? Working hard or hardly working?”

The barista chuckled but gave her a glare that said ‘watch it’. She ordered a _tiinua_ like Sansa had.

“I still don’t see why I have to learn Westerosi,” started the dark-haired girl placing her books on the bar table. Sansa rolled her eyes, it was the same argument every time.

“What does it matter when I sit on an _aulki,_ not a _chair,_ ” she whined putting extra emphasis on the pronunciation of ‘air’.

“Because the rest of the world uses Westerosi for seemingly everything. Even your books are written in Westerosi, Arya. Stop being difficult.”

“But why? Why not Valyrian? At least it sounds nice. Besides, everyone should more or less understand Andolian.”

Sansa shook her head. Megrana was an incredible place although full of stubborn folk who paradoxically accepted influences from everywhere but were obsessed with tradition. Among one of those obsessions was maintaining Andolian, the language of the first Andals who crossed over from Essos. It was something between High Valyrian and another Eastern dialect. Across the West, Andolian had eventually evolved into Westerosi as the First Men and the Andals began to co-exist peacefully. But Megrana stood firm on keeping Andolian. Megrana…it was neither East nor West, yet oddly both.

“Try speaking Andolian in Noruora and see if they understand,” quipped Sansa.

“Noruora?” That peaked Arya’s interest. “But no one actually lives in Noruora.”

“You’d be surprised,” smirked the redhead knowingly. Drogo had approached them setting down Arya’s _tiinua_ accompanied by a generous piece of toast rubbed in sour plum, oil and salted dragon peppers. Arya’s face beamed at the piece of bread and then at Drogo. She gave a lively ‘thank you’ and proceeded to stuff her face with the toast. When she was done wolfing down the piece of bread, she looked at Sansa. “Alright _Snow_ , why don’t you tell me more about Noruora?”

“Because that’s not what Lady Olenna pays me to teach you.”

“What she doesn’t know, doesn’t hurt her,” retorted the young girl. It was becoming increasingly clear to Sansa why Lady Olenna had taken a liking to Arya; peas in a pod the two were. “You know, Lady Olenna says you’ve travelled a lot for a—someone your age.”

 _For an orphan,_ thought Sansa. “I guess,” she said softly pressing her lips to the edge of her cup. “Not all of it was out of choice.”

“I’d like to travel, sail across the sea…maybe even visit Noruora one day,” japed Arya while using her index finger to pick up pieces of left over crumbs and salt off the ceramic plate.

“Better learn Westerosi then.”

A dreamy, zoned-out look took over Arya’s expression and she whispered “Do you think...”

Sansa didn’t have to guess what Arya had stopped her self from voicing. It was every orphan’s greatest wonder but also every orphan’s greatest internal demon. That unresolved, ‘why did they do it?’ Maybe they were out there somewhere, out there with an answer or even an apology. Or maybe it was better to pretend they never had parents.

“Probably not,” Sansa said answering the unfinished question. “But if you learn the Common Tongue you can at least be sure you didn’t miss them when you go on your search.”

Arya rolled her eyes in defeat and reluctantly opened her Westerosi dialogue workbook.

———

Vermell was the jewel of Megrana. It was said that to be blind in Megrana was the greatest curse and when she had first seen Vermell, its red walls illuminated by the sunset, pastel colours that licked the sky, lush green gardens that surrounded it with crystal pools flowing beside it, she understood. It was incomparable. Sansa’s senses were overwhelmed by the beauty, by the smell of orange blossoms, and the warmth from the last beams of daylight on her skin. She felt a comforting sense of peace just standing here.

The red architectural wonder was an ancient relic of the first Western Andals. It was beautifully designed in an Eastern fashion. But the gardens, the plentifulness of water and trees, that was from the First Men. Some said that the Andals built Megrana on top a wondrous city where the children of the forest and the First Men had built together long before.

Sansa loved the gardens of Vermell, with its bright godswood so different from the dark one in Noruora. Here there were fountains everywhere, trees with honey apricots and citrus yet the centre of attention was the weirwood with its forlorn face, red sap bleeding. It was a tree that commanded respect. A strange feeling of melancholy washed over her as she stared at it.

“I always thought it a rather morbid thing.”

Sansa recognised the voice…and the tone. Looking up at the crimson leaves she replied, “It’s always made me feel… _mundade_ for some reason.”

“Strange thing to get nostalgic over…then again you’ve always been a _strange_ girl. Not to mention you’ve seen far worse than that face.”

Sansa internally winced at the comment. The older woman had no finesse to deliver.

“A sad truth.”

“Nothing to be sad about, child. You’re here in the city of old, studying in the most prestigious Citadel in Westeros. All that despite coming from an ice pit where you were likely to have amounted to nothing. But here you are and its not because of the Seven or a grumpy tree. It has been all you, girl. Remember that.”

Sansa smiled but it did not reach her eyes. Lady Olenna’s cynical peptalks were not what she had planned to encounter today at the godswood of Vermell.

“Pardon, m’ladies but we are closing soon to daytime visitors,” interrupted a firm voice. It belonged to a young man with curly dark burnish hair, blue eyes and a lean build. He wore the traditional Vermell uniform and the clean cut suited him. “The gardens will only be open to those with evening tickets starting in 10 minutes.”

The old woman was having none of it. “Do you know who I am, young man?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, ma’am.” If the young man was intimidated, he did not show it. Sansa was impressed at his stoicism.

“I am Olenna Tyrell, the primary philanthropist keeping this crumbling thing on its feet,” all but spat the elderly lady. “You wouldn’t even have evening visitors if it weren’t for my generous patronage.”

“My apologies, ma’am,” said the young man bowing his head slightly. He was not one bit fazed by the older woman's disdain. “Unfortunately I am not in a position to make the call of whether you can stay or not. However I can bring over my mana—“

“Oh do piss off.” And with that Lady Olenna interlocked her arm with Sansa’s and dragged her towards the exit. “The bad fucks of Megrana, indeed.”

Sansa could have sworn she saw an amused expression cross the young man’s face as she turned back to look. Megrana had built a reputation of being a city with a grumpy population, all suffering from an infamous despondent attitude. Hence the labelling of “bad fucks”…much like someone that could do with getting laid to lighten up their mood, but on a population scale.

“Is it true?” She asked in earnest.

“Is what true?” Lady Olenna’s face displayed calm annoyance. “The city _is_ full of bad fucks.”

“I meant about you being the main donor to Vermell.”

“Of course not, I grace the Vermell Gala with my presence once a year and that’s more than enough,” replied Lady Olenna sourly. “Everyone’s more concerned with crumbling walls than crumbling lives. I prefer to throw my money at the latter.”

Sansa had nothing to say to that. On one hand she always admired Lady Olenna’s, albeit begrudging, generosity. On the other hand she felt that money with no accompanying plan or infrastructure was part of the problem, not the solution.

“I know what you’re thinking, Snow. I also know you have a soft spot for those bloody stones and weeds.”

“I also happen to have a soft spot for people.”

“That you do! And that is why you will be the ideal diplomat to graduate from the Megranian Citadel. You’ll certainly be a better politician than that tart, Cersei.”

Sansa had not wanted to think back on her time in the capital, back when she had briefly interned with the Mayor of King's Landing, Cersei Lannister. “I’d much rather work here in Megrana.”

“Megrana is old with negligible influence over the world. You were destined for greater things, my dear.” Lady Olenna patted Sansa’s arm encouragingly.

Of course, Sansa was no fool. She knew fully well that Lady Olenna’s goodwill came at a cost. The price was Sansa’s sharp mind for the political sphere. The few years she had spent in King's Landing running errands for Cersei, silently attending meetings, essentially working as a glorified secretary, had given her insight into the world of diplomacy. Lady Olenna was keen on leaving her mark on the world and Sansa was her champion.

“Would that be to _not_ make the mistakes of Cersei Lannister?” The Mayor of King's Landing thought herself more clever than she actually was and often failed to realise that one caught more flies with honey than with vinegar. Sansa had sometimes pitied the Mayor whose resentments, frustrations and overall hatred of the world were so openly visibly.

Lady Olenna scoffed, “Not being an imbecile is not what I meant by greater things.” They slowly made their way down the steep stone path into the city centre. “Even one of those _shiaorem_ girls would have been smarter than Cersei Lannister,” continued the elderly woman.

 _Shiaorem_ was a small hidden brothel at the top of the Sacred Hill in Megrana. While the establishment itself was discrete, its reputation was decidedly not. Many an unsavoury political move had been agreed on in said establishment as well as in its sister location in King's Landing, _The Mockingbird_. The memory of Littlefinger flashed through her mind. Sansa pushed away the surfacing thoughts on that.

They were now on Kings of the Seven, the main road where shops had begun to close while bars and teahouses prepared themselves for evening clients. Sansa could do with a cup of spiced tea or something harder, but not in the company of Lady Olenna. _At least not tonight._

She walked Lady Olenna to the corner of a small alley way in front of a white stone house. Through the gated doorway a water fountain surrounded by golden rose bushes could be seen.

“Well then Snow, I hope your lessons with Arya are going well. Good luck in your studies, make sure to send my regards to Professor Varys the next time you see him.”

Sansa smiled politely wanting nothing more than to be rid of the present company. “Will do. Goodnight, ma’am.”

“Oh and Sansa?”

Sansa had already begun to depart. “Yes?” She said turning around.

“Did you get Margarey and Joffrey’s wedding invitation?” Lady Olenna looked at her expectantly, her hand clutching the gate. Sansa turned her gaze downward. She had tried to avoid this conversation for weeks, now she was cornered. Margaery Tyrell had first been her friend but, like everything in Sansa’s life, even friendships were never clear cut. She considered her more of an ally now. It was thanks to Margaery, granddaughter of Lady Olenna, that Sansa was able to leave King's Landing. _No thanks to Cersei and Joffrey._

“Yes, I have,” she said solemnly though her voice was firm. The older woman nodded and began to open the gate. Sansa took that as her cue to leave and once more began to head towards Kings of the Seven when Lady Olenna called out.

“I expect to see you there, Snow.”

Sansa turned back briefly but Lady Olenna had already gone in. With a heavy sigh the redhead made her way ahead. She wished she had had more time at the godswood to think. _Alone_.

Walking on the main road she turned a few blocks down and walked up a narrow path leading to a small tavern. Sansa was ready for a drink. Through the door she passed an empty sentinel knight suit that was on display to greet entering customers. _The Rusty Armour_ was the name of the inn. She had been here only once before, when first arriving to Megrana. She remembered that despite the tacky decor, they served generous snacks with every drink. The place was rather desolate, being still too early in the night and the middle of the week.

“You going to order something?” Sansa had been so absorbed by her own thoughts that she had not noticed the tavern keeper waiting for her as she stood there staring into space.

“A Seven Grains,” she ordered while looking at the tapestries and faded posters on the walls. “…please.”

“Pint?” He asked with a tinge of condescension in his voice.

Sansa now looked at the barman, annoyed by his tone. That was when she noticed his face. It was partially deformed on his right-hand side, with angry scars that looked like the skin had melted and then been unevenly stretched over. The skin where his eyebrow would have been drooped a little.

“Get an eye full?” He barked, visibly irritated. He reminded her of snarling dog.

Sansa blushed with embarrassment although, through the inn’s dim lighting, it may not have been obvious. She _hoped_ anyway. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Spare me,” the man spat. He was tall with dark hair and an impressive physique. Where Drogo the barista had dark almond eyes and copper skin, this barman was a shade paler, with distinctive eyes composed of dark limbal rings surrounding smokey grey irises. The angular features of his face reminded her of the stained glasses that had depicted the Warrior back in the sept of Noruora. The left side of his mouth betrayed bow-shaped lips which were now curled into a sneer as he prepared to pour the beer. “Pint or half pint?”

“Pint, please,” chirped Sansa feeling awkward as she stared at the man’s hands taking a ceramic pint and pulling on the tap. They were large, a little veiny but the fingers were long and the fingernails a pleasing shape. _Properly trimmed,_ Sansa noted; she felt herself blush again. Why was she checking out this man’s hands? He was rude and hypersensitive about his scars, naturally. His reaction suggested he was self-conscious about it despite his visibly handsome features on the unblemished half. Sansa couldn’t help but relate. It was easy to get caught up in the flaws, ignoring the rest.

He deftly slid over a coaster and placed her pint on it. When she went to pay, her fingers brushed his in handing him the five coppers. The warm tingle of their contact made her feel vulnerable. It annoyed her that in addition to bumping into Lady Olenna she had been caught unawares by this stranger. All she wanted was a drink and a bite; to numb the anxiety of the prospective wedding she had to attend. That and drown the truth that she was as much a pawn to Lady Olenna as she had been to Cersei Lannister.

She drank from her cup, savouring the crisp malty flavour and refreshing citrus aroma of the ale. Tempted to run away from the barman, Sansa contemplated sitting on the other side of the establishment. But thinking better of it, she sat herself down right there at the front, waiting for her complimentary snack. The tavern keeper had stomped off to the kitchen.

_I can sit here and stare him down. I can do that. I’m an orphan and nothing can scare me._

He came back a few minutes later with a hearty dish of pressed ham toastie on top of a mountain of fried roots. Garlic cream and spicy grumkin sauce had been squeezed on separate corners of the plate. It was far more generous than she had previously remembered. Sansa looked at the barman in the eyes and made an effort to declare, “Thank you.”

The man nodded begrudgingly and proceeded to wipe down the bar. Sansa had not noticed how hungry she was until she started eating. Between bites, Sansa decided she didn’t like feeling the palpable tension between her and the barman. “It was a lot busier the first time I came here,” she said trying to make conversation.

“Was it midweek?” He asked gruffly.

Sansa remembered it had been the night she had applied to study at the Citadel. “No, it was the weekend.”

“That would be why, then.” He spoke no more and continued wiping. The tavern keeper’s taciturn nature did not help make things easier.

Dipping a salty frite into the grumkin sauce she thought Arya would like it here. She would have something witty to say to the barman as well. Sansa wished she could channel Lady Olenna’s tart tongue in such a situation. He had begun mopping the floor and Sansa took the opportunity to appreciate his muscled arms now that he wasn’t looking. She licked her lips, partially because she was eating the ham toastie and partially because the bulging muscles beckoned her to do so. She took a swig of the beer and wondered if she had found a new favourite spot for the evenings.

Sansa felt slightly ashamed at the train of her own thoughts. The man in front of her was probably more than ten years her senior. There was nothing wrong with that _per se_ , but she was still a kid in the eyes of most. Being an orphan had forced her to grow up fast, but it also made her feel isolated and afraid of putting herself out there, ironically making her feel more like a child. The nagging claws of unworthiness made itself present in the pit of her stomach.

_Get it together, Snow._

Deciding then that there was nothing wrong with a recreational viewing, she continued staring. Besides, there was little else to be distracted by. She looked over at a tapestry in the back of the bar, it was tattered but she could make out it was depicting a story with a knight and fair maiden across the panels. Behind the painted damsel consistently stood the Mother and the Maiden. In some of the panels the Crone was there too. Behind the knight was the Warrior, the Smith and the Father with the Stranger depicted in a few panels. Sansa smirked to herself drinking her pint. It was an odd tapestry, the last panel depicted the couple holding hands in front of a weirwood tree with only the Crone and the Stranger surrounding them. The knight, however, was bleeding.

“Florian and Jonquill it is.”

The barman’s baritone voice pulled her from her musings. “Pardon?”

“The tapestry.” He had been watching her line of sight apparently. “It’s supposed to be the song of Florian and Jonquill.”

Sansa vaguely remembered it from her schooling in Noruora. What she had mainly gathered was that it was about love and class struggle but that no one _really_ knew the details of the long lost love song. “The last panel is odd,” she said pointing at it. “The Crone and the Stranger—I can’t decide whether it means there is only wisdom and death to look forward to in marriage...”

The barman chuckled at her interpretation. It was a deep husky sound, not unpleasant.

“…or if it means that marriage is the light until death do they part.”

He smiled and unconsciously ran his teeth over his bottom lip. Without realising it, Sansa licked her lips in response as she watched him.

“The Stranger doesn’t always have to be death,” he suggested in a low voice, suddenly amused with the turn of their interaction. “You need wisdom to deal with the unknown.”

Sansa laughed genuinely in response. “You make marriage sound like a blackhole.” She thought of the wedding she was expected to attend. The thought itself felt like it was sucking up all the light into a dark pit.

“Some are,” retorted the tall imposing man. He had stopped cleaning and leaned over the bar, towering over her. Her face was now certainly flushed after the beer and their now shared proximity. “Another pint?”

His raspy voice sent warm tingles to her tummy. Sansa swallowed nervously; now that the tension had been lifted and replaced with something else, she felt like sprinting away. “I—I need to be heading back.” She stood up from the bar stool and demurely tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “Thank you for everything.”

The barman now held an unreadable expression on his face as she began to leave. Feeling awkward about it, Sansa asked before dashing off, “Do you have any live music or Dornish dancing here?”

“We sometimes have gigs and poetry recitals. Not much room for dancing though,” he responded pointing out the size of the establishment.

“Right,” said Sansa nervously. “Live music and poetry then.”

“This weekend, actually. A few locals are playing. You sing?”

Sansa laughed wryly. “A little but definitely nothing to write home about, mostly shower worthy. Poetry though…I could have a go at that.” She also played a bit of the lute and high harp but then again so did half of Megrana, and substantially better than herself.

“Like I said, just a few locals.” There was something almost melancholic in the man’s gaze, that or tiredness, noted Sansa. “Stop by before the end of the week if you want to perform anything,” he offered gruffly.

Smiling she thanked him once more. “I’ll think about it. Goodnight…?”

“Clegane,” he finished for her his dark hair curtaining the burnt side of his face.

Sansa nodded. “Goodnight, Clegane.” She walked out quickly, barely hearing him reply, “Night.”

Feeling both giddy and embarrassed, she thought, _Own it, own it. You’re an orphan and nothing can scare you. Nothing to feel shame about._ She imagined the look of disappointment on Clegane’s face if she had said her name, _Snow_. It was silly but she had sprinted out just to avoid saying it. Or her age for that matter…

A pang of self-pity ran through her. Sansa hated that she felt ashamed of something that was not her fault. That shame had been so difficult to get past, it used to paralyse her, making her feel incompetent, like there was something intrinsically flawed about her. Sometimes it still got the best of her. As a student of diplomacy, learning to hide those fears and anxieties was the first step to succeed in a political career. Repressing had always come naturally to her but when it came to projecting confidence, she felt like a fool.

She thought of the boy in the gardens of Vermell. His face had betrayed nothing; an unwavering rock amidst the waves of Lady Olenna’s wrath. Could she not be like that?

 _I can be brave_ , she thought. _I can learn. I_ have _learned._

Having moved to so many places, encountered so many different characters, Sansa’s own reactions had mellowed. She thought of the sea of sorrow that she would drown herself in when she brooded, as rare as those moments were as of late. Sansa thought of the burning anger that threatened to devour her when she empathised with the struggles of others. She had even felt empathy for Cersei Lannister at one point. But that was an eternity ago. A part of her knew that her rage on the behalf of others was the only way she could feel justified, unashamed of her anger at life, at the injustices and slights that resonated so deeply with her own experiences.

Arriving at the front of her student dormitory, she could hear laughter coming from the different rooms. Sansa wanted to be in control, not just let things _happen_ to her. Between the anger and the despair, she had impulsively made choices that had put others in charge of her life. But no more; she would be clever now. She would be resilient, cold and unwavering like the frost of Noruora.

The septas had always said that Sansa was a docile sweet child but it was the temper of a red-head that revealed she was touched by fire after all. Opening the door to her room, Sansa concluded, it was best to live touched by fire and to die with ice in one’s veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my imagination I've placed Megrana somewhere between Wyl and Vulture's Roost.
> 
> As always, if you've enjoyed this don't be shy and let me know. Constructive criticism is welcomed too.


	3. Of Troubled Dreams and Troubled Realms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains sexually explicit content. It is rated Explicit for a reason :)

In what felt like looking into a distorted mirror, Sansa’s gaze fixed on a girl who was the replica of her younger self…and at the same time was not. A ridiculously elaborate hairstyle adorned the young girl’s face as she wore pretty pink silk robes with intricate embroidery. But what truly startled Sansa was the haunted vulnerable look on the child’s face, tearing bloodshot eyes. Is that what she looked like when she was brooding?

 _'This is insane,'_ Sansa thought as she observed the scene before her.

The girl was sobbing hard now. _‘I hate this, why can’t things just go back to the way they were? We should have never left home.’_

Sansa thought this was by far the most bizarre dream to have as she stared at her younger copy dry heaving. Was this some strange way of her subconscious reaching out to her?

She wondered if the girlish attention to detail of her copy’s clothes and hair wasn’t a manifestation of some repressed femininity she had failed to embrace across the years.

_‘Why are the gods so cruel?’_

‘ _That would be because there are no gods_ ’, she retorted dryly. This frilly Sansa seemed to be full of the melodramatic and waterworks. _‘The only god that exists is the one between a woman’s legs.’_

It was callous, something Cersei or Lady Olenna would have said, but Sansa felt put off by the young girl who seemed to embody everything she hated—still hated, perhaps—about herself. She had realised the hard way that no one was coming to save her.

The prim and proper replica in front of her was inconsolable. The girl’s lower lip was quivering and her eyes were filling up with more tears. _‘You can’t say that…it’s not true.’_

 _‘The Seven?’_ And now she had stooped down to debating with the subconscious figment of her mind. _‘Is this what you prayed for, little one?’_

The gaunt pallor of the girl’s face was accentuated by the deep red tresses framing it. Sansa thought this girl looked fragile, more fragile than she ever thought herself to be. The red rims of her water ducts in combination with her clear blue-eyes gave her a tragic, broken look.

Even in the Eyrie, Sansa could not recall looking so miserable. Then again, she had rarely bothered to look at her reflection in such a state. Yet there had been time of unspeakable pain, locked in her heart, buried in her mind; a tightened spool she would not unravel. The young girl stared at her, mouth agape, as if she wanted to say something but the words wouldn’t flow.

It was odd to be trapped in a dream that was neither a nightmare nor pleasant, as she stared back at her copy, patiently waiting for the frilly double to say something. Sansa couldn’t help but think that she’d much rather rather be dreaming of Drogo, the barista or even the tavern keeper, Clegane. Pretty much anything else than watch her moping copy.

 _‘Are you me?,’_ the young replica whispered questioningly, her eyes wide. _‘D-did the Mother…send you?’_

Sansa did not know how to answer that. Here she was wondering what she could tell this young, impressionable version of herself. It was a dream after all. Was there a right answer? A wrong one?

 _‘I am…’_ Sansa began as she gave her younger double’s pompous hairstyle a once over. What was there to say to the figment of her subconscious? If it was some sort of psychological exercise, she was not sure what the right answer would be. _‘I am…the future.’_

It lacked conviction but it was not _wrong._ In an amusing turn of thoughts, Sansa wondered if her younger figment-self was disappointed in what she had become.

‘ _Oh_ ,’ the frilly copy said, her lips chapped from dehydration. A sad smile began to crack on her lips. ‘ _…I-I never thought…I had hoped but never…oh Mo-_ ’

 _‘This isn’t about_ the Mother _,’_ Sansa stated firmly to her double. Was the copy meant to embody some sort of lost innocence she was supposed to reconnect with? It rubbed her the wrong way to see this younger copy hold on to the Seven with a devotion and piousness that she recalled far too vividly, to her own shame.

Crossing-her arms she looked down at her younger self and said, _‘I wouldn't waste my breath on the Seven.’_

The broken girl looked at her, licking her chapped lips, eyes shining. _'How do you know the Hound?'_

_'The Hound?'_

_'Yes, one of the men you were thinking about…I don't recognise the other.'_

So the little copy could hear her thoughts as well. _Wonderful_. She wasn't certain how to feel about a younger version judging her.

 _'The angry one…Clegane,'_ continued hoarsely the frail replica. Knowing that her frilly naive copy referred to the tavern keeper as a dog rubbed her the wrong way. Is that what _she_ thought too?

Before Sansa had time to register what was going on, her younger wide-eyed tear-stained copy began to fade and then, in a blink of an eye, she was no longer there.

Sansa became acutely aware of her new surroundings.

A sept. She was in front of an altar, the stained windows were brightly coloured with images of the Seven, the harsh whistling sound of the wind could be heard outside. Her copy had disappeared. She recognised the sept; it was the one from Noruora.

Sansa’s eyes were drawn to a panel right in the middle window of the sept. There stood the warrior, in his armour holding sword and shield but something was off. The helm was in the shape of a dog’s head. Above the Warrior, stood the Stranger. Had that always been there? She could not remember but she felt her heart race recognising the painted grey eyes that peered through the armour of the Warrior. Her mouth parted realising that through the Stranger’s hood, a partially burnt face peered at her.

The sudden feeling of another presence behind her startled her at first. A memory of Littlefinger flashed through her mind, but it was the towering shadow she saw grow in front of the altar that told her this was not Lord Baelish.

She felt the warmth of a solid and firm body against her back. Two thick arms in chainmail trapped her against the altar. It should have been frightening but instead she welcomed it. The warm feeling in her tummy made itself present. She could feel hot breath against her neck, her own breathing hitched as she felt smooth lips against the rim of her right ear. The sensuousness of the act held her captive. A raspy voice whispered, _‘Didn’t I say you needed wisdom to face the unknown?’_

In the dream she stood there, trembling with excitement. _'You're shaking, girl,'_ he said his voice like sand grating stone. _'Do I frighten you so much?'_

In an instant she was sat up in her bed, sweating profusely, breathing hard, awake.

Sansa looked at the window where moonlight softly illuminated her room. The moon was enormous and buttery looking. She lied back in bed wondering what that dream had been about. The sweat making the pillow stick to the back of her neck.

Sometimes she would write down what she had dreamt, but had poor habits in keeping track of such things. However, she couldn’t shake the feeling she had had with this dream. There was something she did need to write down. Getting up she took the small leather notebook from her nightstand and jotted down the detail she did not want to forget. _The Hound_.

Sansa went back to bed but struggled to fall asleep. She couldn’t stop thinking of the strange dream. What had it meant? Sansa had been taken aback at seeing a younger frilly version of herself and then there had been the bit about being at the sept in Noruora.

There was no doubt in her mind that the man had been Clegane. But what shocked her was how (what she could only think of as her own subconscious) she had been so disgusted and borderline contemptuous of him, going as far as calling him _The Hound_. Sansa put her face into her pillow. Is that what she thought of him, somewhere deep inside her mind? A dog? It was horrible and cruel. Sansa felt a wave of guilt. Again the guilt.

It was stupid. She had found him comely in his own way. Clearly, she did. No stranger to erotic dreams, Sansa had always welcomed them. At night she welcomed the thoughts she didn’t dare dwell on during the day. Drogo had often appeared in such dreams. Other times they were faceless figments of her imagination within vivid scenarios. She was not surprised to have dreamt of Clegane but she was surprised that it wasn’t about her doing the things she’d yearn to do with a lover. Sansa sighed heavily, just thinking about how she had felt in her dream. Imagining him behind her was enough to arouse her. She could feel her nipples already harden at the thought.

For all of Septa Unella’s drillings, Sansa’s life experiences had undone a lot of the prudish, stifling nonsense the Faith had ingrained into her. Moreover, in spite of her trauma with Lord Baelish she still hungered for pleasures of the flesh. Even though in daylight Sansa preferred to not think about things of a carnal nature, she had no issues with exploring her body in the privacy of her room, at night when her body yearned for release.

As a young adult and an orphan, Sansa both craved and feared physical intimacy. She thought of the fear Clegane’s proximity had struck in her at the inn and then the sensuous warmth of his breath in her dream. Groaning in frustration, Sansa felt her thighs becoming slick with wetness. It was a shame the dream hadn’t continued, preferably with her riding Clegane on the very altar she had been held against. Maybe he would wear the dog helm she had conjured in her dream for the Warrior? Sansa bit her lip and reached between her legs at the thought. She closed her eyes and caressed softly. Her fingertips delicately teased the already wet swollen nub.

The thought of him wearing chainmail with his dog’s head helm, his delicious rough hands stroking what she could only imagine would be a thick member, proportional to his large imposing self…it was intoxicating. In Sansa’s thoughts, she imagined lowering herself on said member, completely swollen and filled to the hilt.

Mouth parted and now rubbing herself slightly faster, the aroused redhead was teasing her entrance with one digit enjoying how slippery and wet her slit was. Sansa wondered if Clegane would enjoy it. She felt a little put off by the sudden thought that he might think her a silly child. He was older after all, perhaps he had had his fill of women and would find it absurd to be with a girl of eight and ten who had no experience in bed, except that of her own hand.

Then again she thought of how he had gazed at her when he offered her another pint. Or had she imagined it? Did he think her desirable? Or just vapid for blatantly starring at his scars? Sansa wanted to think that he found her attractive enough to have invited her to perform at the _Rusty Armour_. Touching herself once more with newly fuelled enthusiasm she thought of Clegane at the sept again but this time as a hooded figure in the shadows where she could only make out his cupid’s bow lips: half disfigured, half sensuous. A smirk on them as this time she lay on her back, legs spread wide as he teasingly rubbed his tip against her slick entrance, occasionally rubbing her pink nub.

She imagined him towering over her even while she was on the altar, her wrists caught in one of his fists pulled over her head. The idea was driving her wild and she found herself sliding two digits into herself, the flat of her palm now responsible for rubbing her pearl. Her other hand had found a breast and was now squeezing the nipple between two delicate fingers.

What would her younger replica think of her filthy thoughts? Sansa laughed inwardly at that, too high off her pleasure to feel any guilt or shame over it now. She could only think about the hooded figure, a Stranger Clegane eager to fuck her on the altar, teasing her entrance with the head of his cock.

 _‘What did I say?’_ He would ask her. She would try to answer. _‘You need wisdom to—’_ and he would penetrate her with just the head, sending shots of pleasure through her. He would brush her pearl with his thumb as encouragement. _‘To?’_ He would prompt her, promising her paradise. She would moan, _‘To f-face the un-unknown.’_

The idea had Sansa in a frenzy, her hips in the air, back arched as she pleasured herself on sheets wet with sweat and her own juices. She looked down to watch her digits slip in and out in the moonlight. Her legs were wide open, at this point she was fucking her hand shamelessly quietly mewling at the sight of her slick fingers pumping in and out of her. Her pink mouth agape with pleasure, she closed her eyes again andimagined a hooded Clegane licking his lips as her breasts bounced with their movements on the altar. She imagined the painted panels, the gods watching them, listening to them as the wet slaps of him taking her echoed throughout the sept. They would bear witness as the Stranger took her and she gave herself willingly to whatever darkness.

Her thoughts were too much to bear, she felt the warmth in her chest from her hitched breathing, her nipples hard with excitement. The walls of her womanhood squeezed her fingers tightly for all they were worth as she softly pet the swollen nub that could take no more. She was so close, finding a pillow she covered her mouth letting out a wanton cry of pleasure, her toes curling and uncurling. She came crashing down, her entrance pulsating from peaking while her legs trembled, her nether lips dripped glistening in the moonlight.

With legs still parted, sweaty and tired, Sansa felt a warm peaceful feeling. It was accompanied by a sleepy enthusiasm to stop by the _Rusty Armour_ at the end of the week.

Spent and tired, sleep claimed her quickly. Her last thoughts were that she wouldn’t mind encountering Clegane again. Whether in real life or in another dream.

———

_There is a far worse sin than being impure_ , contemplated Sansa as she walked down to _Khalasar_ tea house. _Being insipid_.

In her dream she had wanted to flee from the frilly version of herself. _Frilly and melancholic_. It had been disturbing to see what her subconscious had cooked up. _Is that what I think of myself?_

Sansa walked into the teahouse and sat at the bar. Drogo was there chatting with a customer—a silver-haired young woman with a sweet smile. Sansa smirked to herself as she watched them flirt. She recognised the girl from one of her classes at the Citadel. She had been so engrossed in observing them that she nearly jumped out of her skin, emitting a high pitched yelp when she heard a familiar voice whisper, “Wanna bet they end up hooking up?”

“Arya!” _Really,_ how the young orphan moved so quietly was beyond her. The dark-haired girl laughed, mirth glittering in her eyes, “The look on your face was worth it!”

Having successfully called attention to themselves, Drogo cleared his throat leaving the cute girl and making his way towards them to take their order. “Two _tiinuas?_ ”

“Yes,” both Sansa and Arya replied in unison with Sansa adding a polite ‘please’ at the end. He nodded chuckling and went about to prepare their brews. Arya took the opportunity to fill in Sansa on her latest chat with Lady Olenna, her Braavosi martial arts training, and a Dothraki dancing lesson she had started—all in Westerosi, of course. “You should join,” she offered.

“Which one—the fighting or the dancing?” Sansa asked in jest.

“Well, now that you mention it, why not both?”

Sansa looked at her incredulously, “I hardly think I’d be good at fighting…”

“You’d be surprised,” said Arya reassuringly. “Besides, that’s the point: to learn to fight. It would also be good stress relief…”

“I think I’d find fighting, in itself, stressful…” thought Sansa although considered it, even if passingly. “I’ll think about it, but I’m happy to join you for dancing. That reminds me, would you like to come with me this weekend to the _Rusty Armour_? There will be live music and poetry, I was thinking of maybe reciting something myself…”

Arya smiled a genuine toothy smile and agreed to go with her. Sansa suspected the girl often spent most of her time alone. Despite the age and personality differences, being orphans bonded them and made them appreciate one another’s company.

“Hello,” said a friendly voice. They were both surprised to see that the silver-haired girl from Sansa’s class had approached them. “I couldn’t help but notice you were both speaking in Westerosi…and you’re in one of my classes, is that right?”

Sansa smiled and confirmed that indeed they had the same class with Professor Varys. “I’m Daenerys Stormborn, but most people call me Dany,” she said extending her hand to Sansa.

“I’m Sansa Snow and this is Arya Wulf,” said Sansa shaking the other girl’s hand resolutely, dismissing all feelings of embarrassment regarding her surname. Daenerys did not flinch, or seem to care, for which Sansa was grateful.

The silver-haired girl began to chat with them in fluent Westerosi for which, at some point, Arya became a little lost and Sansa had to explain that Arya was only just learning the Common Tongue. Switching to Andolian, Arya gave her usual rant regarding of not understanding why Westerosi was so damn important. Dany laughed and explained that as someone who spoke Valyrian, Westerosi, and Andolian, she no longer asked herself that question.

“I’m actually keen on learning Dothraki at the moment,” she said just as Drogo came by to set their coffees in front of them. He had also generously given all three of them a sour plum rubbed toast topped with a delicate slice of horse _gavat_. The three of them chirped their thanks. Arya shamelessly told Daenerys that they should come to the tea house when she was around to get better complimentary toasts. This made Sansa blush furiously and Dany laugh, but also blush. Drogo just bestowed his charming smile which was mainly sent Daenerys’ way. They learned that Drogo was fluent in Dothraki having arrived from Essos as a young boy and that he had now _kindly_ offered to teach Daenerys his native tongue, to which Arya discretely snickered upon hearing so.

Sansa found the young woman easy to talk to and interesting—she told them she was specialising in sex and population studies, focusing on inequality and the questions of why Westeros had managed to economically overshadow Essos despite Esso’s longer history of progressive thinking and readily available resources. Arya was not shy to ask Daenerys about her fieldwork in Essos as she too dreamed of travelling East. She also mentioned her Dothraki dancing and Braavosi fighting lessons which peaked the silver-haired girl’s interest. “I’d be happy to join you for either or both, if that’s alright,” Daenerys suggested.

Arya nodded and added, “Now try convincing Snow here to join us for the fighting!”

Sighing in resignation, Sansa agreed begrudgingly to join them for both. Sansa also extended her invitation to Daenerys to join them at the _Rusty Armour_ at the end of the week but Dany already had plans. She promised to stop by if anything changed.

The girls finished their _tiinuas_ and parted ways but Sansa and Daenerys walked together towards the Citadel, the both of them having a class on social movement with Professor Varys.

———

Professor Varys was a pale man, completely hairless with an almost powdery complexion. He often donned a grey side-buttoned robe to class. He was eloquent and had a soothing voice when lecturing. It frequently lulled Sansa into a relaxing calm despite the often morally challenging topics they covered. Today they were covering what it meant to be a State, or in the case of Westeros, a Realm.

“What makes a sovereign political entity has not gone undisputed and remains as polemic now as it has been for thousands of years in Westeros,” said Professor Varys with a flourish of hands. “As we all know, it is the lions that have been the ruling authority of the realm for the last few generations. But today we see a shift driven by public opinion, in a time when public opinion matters vastly.” He paused and looked at the class pointedly and asked, “Why? Why is the—dare I say— _Lannister_ Realm, no longer maintaining the populace _content_?”

Daenerys did not miss a heart-beat when answering resolutely, “Lack of welfare services.” Her expression was grave with a barely perceptible twinge of anger. “Lack of justice, people are starving and the elite remain indolent.”

“Poor welfare services and injustice has been the meat and mead of Westeros for centuries, Stormborn. Why _now_?” Prodded Professor Varys almost gliding towards her.

Daenerys looked thoughtful and replied, “Female public opinion. Half of the realm used to be silent but no longer.”

The powdery lecturer raised what would have been an eyebrow had there been hair. He said carefully and considering it himself, “Yes, indeed, we now have half a realm of brainpower that can now contribute to society. Surely that makes a difference yet that has been the case for more than three generations now…what _else_?”

“Access to information,” replied Sansa, her answer provoking a knowing smile on the face of their Professor and an encouraging nod for her to continue.

“We have historically thought of state and society as separate entities—binary with separate interactions especially in times of strife like war, but that is no longer the case. People have access to what transpires much more readily than ever, that of course includes women but also the poor. And yes,” said Sansa agreeing with Daenerys—“the lack of welfare services and injustices, the like which was not questioned before because we were none the wiser as there was nothing to compare to...but information about other cities and the speed, and radius, at which this information is dispersed has improved not more than a generation ago.”

“All true, Snow. Quick access to information has shifted the tide of Westerosi public opinion, and now the expectations of what a realm _should_ be have changed…but what is it that _makes_ a realm in the first place?”

“The ability to extract revenue from its citizens?” The voice belonged to a boy that they knew as Sam Tarly. He was a good-natured boy with brown hair, chubby and embarrassed about it to the point that it made him terribly shy around girls. Sansa found him endearing and intelligent, especially after getting over initial impressions and they were able to discuss issues surrounding the current political climate of Westeros.

“For example,” concurred Professor Varys waving his hand with a flourish towards Tarly.

“But so can a crime ring,” argued Daenerys.

“Yes,” said Tarly and with pause, “but we assume an official institution, we are assuming a coherent body…”

“Organised crime _can_ be a coherent body,” interrupted the silver-haired girl, her violet eyes narrowing on Tarly.

Sam looked, at first, taken aback and then regarded her quietly letting out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, it’s true but then we can also say that criminal syndicates provide, or at the very least promise, provisions like welfare services and safety. Are they a _realm_?”

Sansa bit her lower lip, a poor habit that even the septas had not managed to correct. “I suppose the real question is how do you go from a small syndicate to an institutional identity? In the end, the institutional identity is a construct based on…a capacity to perform a said power like provide welfare services…?”

Clapping his hands together, Professor Varys announced, “Finally we reach the inner workings of it. _Now,_ is it _just_ carrying out such actions, said performance?”

“ _Perform_ the realm,” said Daenerys contemplative. “It is symbolic as well as tangible.”

“ _Precisely._ The realm has to be thought as well as felt in order to exist. It is in small micro practices, in society, that The Realm is constructed; in the mundane day-to-day. However, when welfare provisions are sparsely invested in, some of that construction begins to degrade as we are seeing today in King's Landing with the Bread Riots. It tears down the sense of community membership and therefore begins to destroy the projection of a coherent infrastructure.”

Professor Varys turned to look at his pupils who were sat in a semi-circle before him. Dark long wooden desks where each sat at the centre. It was only the three of them; the Citadel of Megrana prided itself on small scale tutelage. “Do you all remember the _clever_ tax King's Landing set in place a few years back? Clever and cruel to tax those wishing to enter the capital it had seemed at the time. Now we have an uprising in the capital, demands for the lions to step down. Strange that the lions should choose such a time to mock the populace with an extravagant noble wedding.”

“The Bread Riots are only the beginning,” whispered Sansa putting the pieces together in her own mind. “The people are no longer performing the realm because they do not believe in the Lannister infrastructural power and therefore the realm will no longer be seen as an institutional identity.”

“ _Unless_ a new ruling authority can restore the peace and invest in the people who are performing _The_ _Realm_.”

“Or their plan is to make a _de facto_ rule,” offered Daenerys skeptically. “It is no secret that the lions are power hungry, in particular Cersei Lannister.”

“Surely they don’t mean to auto-coup their own kingdom.” Exclaimed Tarly unbelievingly.

“It would give them a way to destroy the current construction of the realm and impose their own policies without having to take into account the laws of past governing rule,” said Sansa thoughtfully. “Make the people angry and have a reason to put steel on the street on every corner.”

Professor Varys smiled a smile which did not reach his eyes as he leaned in front of Sansa, hands placed flat down on the wooden surface. “These are but _whispers_ …we shall have to wait and see. Watch the unrest children, there is much trouble that awaits our already troubled realm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snow judges Stark rather harshly to begin with but they have a lot to learn from each other. I hope the smutty bit was enjoyable. There will definitely be more in the future though it is a slow build, but SanSan is slowly getting there.
> 
> If you enjoyed it, don't be shy and leave a comment. As usual, I welcome constructive criticism if you are so inclined.


	4. A Northerner and a Westerman

The class left Sansa immersed in her own thoughts, introspective as she walked out of the Citadel and into the street. She thought on the marriage of Margaery and Joffrey, of Lady Olenna, of Cersei…

Knowing Lady Olenna, she thought that the Lannisters had fallen into a pact with the Tyrells—Lady Olenna’s family—because they had sufficient wealth to pick up the pieces from all the generations of accumulated debt. And in this way the Tyrells could, arguably, rid themselves of the hold Cersei had on King's Landing. Cersei’s ambition was, encouraged by her father Tywin Lannister, to annex part of Essos for raw resources, in particular for copper and _zoklaion._ The latter was now becoming a precious resource fuelling a leaping technological advancement of the likes that Westeros had never seen before. Under questionable claim, the Lannisters took it upon themselves to mine the Andals with the argument that it was much Westerosi as it was Essosi since they were the descendants of the true Andals that had crossed over from Essos.

That the Free Cities had taken unkindly to Lannister entitlement was an understatement. With the exception of Braavos, eight of the nine Free Cities had sent out their military to oppose what had been coined as the “Lannister Invasion”. The Lannisters were becoming despised on all corners of the Earth but their inertia to remain in power was disturbing. Sansa wondered how long it could last before it all collapsed into what would only be anarchy should they not step down willingly.

In her own aimless walking, she was surprised to find herself in front of the _Rusty Armour_ once more rather than the gardens of Vermell where she often went to think. Pushing through the wooden door of the tavern, she saw that they technically weren’t even open; chairs were mounted on the tables and no candles aflame or lights turned on. Her eyes went back to the tapestry of the other night, _Florian and Jonquil._

“A bit early isn’t it?” She heard a raspy voice from behind her, startling her. She turned around to see the man that had haunted her dreams from the night they met. She felt goosebumps on her skin—mostly from arousal if she was honest with herself. It felt like his grey eyes were pinning her down and his lips, partially scarred on one side but full on the other, begged to be kissed. She imagined taking his lower lip in between her own thinking back on her dream. Sansa was staring at him blatantly now, mouth parted, but the towering man did not discern her look for one of desire. Instead his face looked cross.

 _He thinks you came to stare at his scars._ She quickly put herself together, “I’m sorry, I came here f-for the gig you mentioned you’ll be having tomorrow…I have something I’d like to perform…”

He nodded and ‘hmphed’, walked towards the bar and grabbed a parchment. Jotting down a note he said, “I’m putting you down for the late-evening.”

“A-alright,” she agreed despite feeling a little peeved that he had not asked her _when_ was best for _her_. She imagined he was still annoyed by her staring. Feeling awkward she nodded and felt the suffocating feeling to leave the tavern. “Well, thank you…Clegane. See you tomorrow evening then, good day.”

Before she managed to sprint off, she felt a hand on her shoulder spinning her around back to face the tavern keeper. “You haven’t told me your name, _girl_.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes, startled by his actions.

Swallowing her spit, she noticed he had tied his hair back, save for some hair that fell on the scarred side of his face. He was overwhelmingly masculine with muscled arms and a broad chest making her feel small despite her above average height. He smelt good too, like cedarwood and…wine. _The Hound._ She remembered the words of insipid dream Sansa. He was intimidating but he made her loins warm and she found him far from hideous.

“I…my name is Sansa, Sansa Snow,” she said, all but whispering her last name. “And you’re Clegane…?”

“Sandor Clegane,” he said, mouth twitching slightly. His face betrayed no emotion of what he thought of her name, _if_ he thought anything at all of it. “You’re a northerner?”

“I was born in Noruora,” she said softly, strangely feeling more relaxed in the dark tavern dimly lit by the sunshine peeking through the small windows. She smiled and added, “but I’ve been a little bit everywhere since childhood. Can’t really call myself a northerner.”

“I’m from the Westerlands,” he said switching to the Common Tongue unexpectedly. “Been a few places myself since leaving and ending up here.”

“There are worse places to end up in,” she said not without bitterness, thinking back on King's Landing.

“Aye, you have the right of it there, girl.” He was clearly more comfortable speaking in the Common Tongue than in Andolian, despite appearing to be completely fluent in both.

Annoyed that he continued to call her _girl_ despite now knowing her name, she began to fidget wanting to leave…but without forgetting her courtesies. “I best be on my way…it was nice to meet you, _ser,”_ she said pointedly towards his reluctance to use her name. Moreover, she wanted to go to the Vermell gardens before they closed.

A properly angry look crossed Clegane’s features. “Don’t call me, _ser,_ ” he said almost growling. Sansa raised a shapely eyebrow at that, feeling that his annoyance was getting a rise out of her more than it was intimidating her.

“I’m as much of a _girl_ as you are a _ser,_ ” she retorted swiftly, annoyed by the double-standard. His face looked mildly surprised at first, but then he smirked. It made the taut skin around the burnt side of his mouth pull, giving himself a nightmarish look. His eyes roamed her over from head-to-toe before scoffing, “That you are.”

Angered now, Sansa’s face flushed red. He was mocking her. He was at least 10 years her senior; to him she probably was a _girl_. Arming herself with well-practiced poise, she made her way out of the tavern and said, “Good day, Clegane.” As she left the inn she heard his deep voice respond, “See you, _Snow_.”

She walked quickly up the hill, on cobblestoned Kings of the Seven to the back entrance of Vermell still fuming.

 _I’m not sure if I should even bother going tomorrow, he’s so rude. He’s fixated on whatever interpretable slight about his face and then shows no concern for the feelings of others._ Sansa knew that she was overreacting but she couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. She hated when she was made to feel like a child.

The gates of the garden were still open and she made her way directly to the weirwood. The black, crimson leaves gleaming on the branches, the face of despair carved on the bark appeared to watch her as she walked up to it. It was strange: this tree in a place so warm, full of sun. Lemon and orange trees perfumed the warm breeze around the weirwood unlike the musty smell of hot springs in cold air that was found around the godswood of Noruora.

She touched the bark tentatively, her fingertips brushing the carved face in bone white bark. It was the last of its kind so far South. She placed a hand on the tree to turn and lean on it, sinking to sit at its roots. Her head right below the dried red sap, she grabbed a leaf from the ground, rubbing it between her finger. One side was a rotting black, the other a velvet crimson. Sansa studied it wondering how it looked so much like her own hair. Sighing she leaned her head against the tree, closing her eyes and then opening them to the view of Megrana below. An oasis in the midst of red stone and sand dunes to the South and cactus valleys in the immediate North with snow-capped red mountains in the distance. Feeling her eyes grow heavy she thought of how at peace she felt here and didn’t want to leave.

———

_‘I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?’_ The voice was a soft young voice, so familiar yet foreign at the same time. This time instead of a frilly dress she wore pale green robes that hung on her fragile looking shoulders. She looked skin and bones, incredibly pale. There was a bruise on the swollen side of her face, right on her ear; dried blood had crusted down from where it had dripped past her earlobe. Her lip was cut as well.

They were in a white space, it was quietly blank, like a canvas—much like the first time she had interacted with this younger version of herself. Sansa looked at her young broken double empathetically. Something pulled in her chest to see herself in that state. _Was I like this? …Or is this me now?_

The young copy sobbed a single heart-wrenching cry and then quietly weeped into her hands. As absurd and strange the situation was, Sansa reached out to the girl and took her in her arms. Unexpectedly she felt her own eyes fill with tears, spilling quietly down her cheeks. She swayed the young girl and ran her hand through her hair in comfort. _‘It’s alright it’s going to be okay…I know it’s hard but it’s going to be alright…’_

She looked down at her younger self and said, ‘ _Whatever it is you’re struggling with, whatever it is that has you down now, you should know that it’s_ you _—it’s you who gets you through everything. Not the Mother, not the Seven, not the old gods._ You _. It might feel like the gods are weaving your fate, but it's only because you haven’t tried shaping it yourself. When you do…you’ll know.’_

Her double was now sobbing uncontrollably into Sansa’s chest, while they swayed softly in that white space. After some time her younger version quieted, sniffling and with large blue eyes, replicas of her own, she stared up at Sansa. _‘Are you me?’_

Chuckling, Sansa wiped the tears from her own eyes and said, _‘Or perhaps you are me?’_

 _‘I thought I had made you,’_ whispered the young copy _. 'But…now I’m not so sure…you look like me but older, more like mother…’_

_‘Mother? Well…then I think you are certainly not me nor I you. I am an orphan.’_

The younger Sansa straightened and pulled away taken aback at what she had said. _‘Orphan?’_

 _‘Yes, an orphan. My parents…gave me up. It happens.’_ Curious, Sansa asked, ‘ _Who are_ your _parents?_ ’

_‘Why Eddard and Catelyn Stark of Winterfell, of course…’_

She laughed at that and thought it was a cruel joke, a cruel dream to make such a thing up. The Starks were an ancient Northern family, almost mythological in Westerosi history. Their lineage had disappeared entirely to the point that some historians wondered if they existed at all since a lot of lore tended to revolve around the Starks and their direwolves. As for Winterfell…it was another legend of Northern folklore along with the Wall and the living-dead. Sansa remembered the stories the septas in Noruora told about the lost Winterfell and the northern Wall that protected everyone from the terrors of winter, the infamous Long Night. To Sansa they had been tales and while she often wondered about those stories as a child, she had cast them aside as soon as she left Noruora. She had greater problems to preoccupy her mind even at a young age, hardly remembering when she had last heard about the lost Kingdom of the North.

_‘The Starks don’t exist and neither does Winterfell.’_

_‘T-they do! Of course they exist.’_

_‘I can’t believe I’m arguing with my subconscious about this. To think I’ve actually managed to retain all this tall tale nonsense somewhere in my mind.’_

Mouth agape her younger self stared at her incredulously. _‘How can you say that? Of course it all exists, just because Joffrey killed father doesn’t mean nothing exists, mother and Ro—’_

 _‘What did you say?’_ Sansa interrupted unsure she had heard correctly.

_‘I said mother and Robb—’_

_‘No, the part before that.’_

_‘Joffrey killed father.’_

_‘What do you mean Joffrey killed_ your _father?’_

Tears where now running down her copy’s cheeks as she began to explain, ‘ _It’s all my fault I should have never told the Queen, I should have listened to father. Now he’s dead and Arya is missing. They’ve sent Jeyne away and I can’t leave King’s Landing. I want to go home, back to Winterfell with mother and my brothers…I should have never believed_ him.’

Sansa could not make sense of anything her younger version was going on about. _‘This is a dream and nothing is real…’_

_‘It is real, you need to believe me, it’s true! I swear it, I swear it’s true!’_

_‘Look,’_ said Sansa having heard enough. She rose and looked down at her younger self. _‘I’m Sansa Snow, I have no family. I was born in Noruora. There is no Winterfell. And Joffrey…’_ Sansa swallowed and scrunched her face in revulsion. _‘He’s a stupid cunt that I would love nothing more than to watch him slowly bleed his way into a corpse.’_

The younger version of herself stood quietly staring at her feet, barely whispering, _‘You sound so angry, like…like_ the Hound _.’_

Sansa scowled at the young double, _‘Are you still going to go on with that? Why are you calling him that? It’s despicable that you think that way.’_

The copy was quick to defend herself saying, _‘No, it’s not me! It’s what they call him—’_

 _‘Who are_ they _?’_

_‘Everyone, Joffrey and the Queen—‘_

_‘How do you know Joffrey? Why do you keep bringing up that cunt? And who is this Queen?’_

_‘He’s my betrothed, his moth—…’_

_‘What? But…seven hells, you’re a child. You don’t even know what you’re saying.’_

_‘I am almost a woman, my moonblood will be arriving any week now…’_

_‘Moonblood? You think menstruating makes you a woman?’_ Sansa was laughing sardonically now. This was all incredible, unbelievable. Any minute and surely this ridiculous dream would be over. _‘Why are you here?’_ She finally asked tired of this game with her subconscious. _‘What do you want?’_

The young girl looked up, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. _‘I don’t know why I’m here…I-I thought I had made you up, I don’t know…I-I don’t want to go back, I’m afraid.’_

_‘Afraid of what?’_

_‘I’m afraid of Joffrey…of Ser Boros and Meryn Trant…’_ The girl looked torn, choosing what to disclose. ‘ _Sometimes I just wish I would never wake up…’_ she whispered mostly to herself.

Sansa did not understand…however, she did recognise the names with a shudder and revulsion. Boros Blount and Meryn Trant were part of the Lannister administration. Old Westerosi men happy to oppress those younger and weaker than themselves making it impossible for outsiders to enter King's Landing’s political sphere. All too eager to do Cersei’s bidding. Trant was particularly vile, she recalled—at work and outside of work.

Yet Sansa was still at a loss about Joffrey. Was this some way of her subconscious reaching out to her regarding Margaery’s wedding? All she could recognise in all this was the loss of hope in her copy’s voice. It hurt her to hear her younger self, as a third person, voicing the secret words she had possessively guarded…lacking the courage to voice them out loud.

‘ _Sansa,’_ It was strange to call out her own name. _‘What can I do?’_ She thought perhaps the way to maintain peace with herself was to try to come to terms. If this was manifesting itself in her mind, surely it was for a reason and the right thing to do was to address it rather than continue to ignore it.

Big blue eyes rimmed with in a watery red looked at her and supplicated, ‘ _Teach me…teach me to be strong, to be_ you _…’_

Distantly Sansa felt that someone was shaking her.

She woke up suddenly, face to face with a man she vaguely recalled. Auburn curls, grey-blue eyes and copper facial hair. It was the young man who had asked Lady Olenna and herself to exit the gardens the other day. “I’m sorry to wake you, m’lady…but we’re—”

“Closing, yes, I know. I remember,” she said with a start, getting up and stretching out her soreness from having fallen asleep against the tree. _These dreams are getting stranger and stranger…_

She yawned, covering her mouth with her hand while the young man looked at her expectantly. Before making her way to the gate she said to him, “Sorry for today and the other day…” She extended out her hand to him, “I’m Sansa Snow, by the way. I don’t meet many people who can stand up to Lady Olenna…”

He shook her hand wearily at first and then laughed. “I apologise for that but…it’s my duty.”

“I can’t fault you for that,” she said in understanding. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name…”

“I didn’t say. I’m Robb Rivers, at your service…but it will have to be for another day because Vermell is officially closed for tonight.”

He gestured her to leave but also politely walked her out. As they said goodbye to one another she faintly recalled a higher pitched voice saying, _‘…mother and Robb…’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken zokla from the High Valyrian, meaning wolf. Zoklaion would be something like wolf's ore in my mind.
> 
> Snow still remains wary of Stark but slowly warming up to her.
> 
> As always, if you've enjoyed it don't hesitate to leave a comment or a review. Construction criticism is also welcomed.


	5. The North Forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone who has left comments and kudos! Your support really means a lot to me. I am very excited to continue updating and hearing your thoughts :)

Sansa spent her Saturday morning more productively than she had anticipated. Waking up she felt an inquisitive urge about the notes she jotted down regarding the dream she had had at the godswood. A few words were scrawled in her notebook: ‘Winterfell’, ‘Eddard Stark’, and ‘Catelyn Stark’.

Motivated to investigate, Sansa made her way to the Citadel library. For hours she searched through old texts which made reference to either the Starks or Winterfell. At some point she caught mention of the Wall. Sansa became engrossed in the random chapter of an old volume that went on about the icy Wall which no longer existed save for a few snowy ruins and long overlooked watch towers that had crumbled, unkept and forgotten. In one passage she found, the following:

> _Historically, the Northern Wall was 100 leagues long extending across the Westerosi continent from the Bay of Ice to the Bay of Slaves. It was believed that the Wall delayed the progression of Winter to the rest of the Westerosi continent. This was rooted in the belief that Winter originated from ‘The Lands of Always Winter,’ better known today as the Reimt Forests, the Frostfang mountain range, and Xelado Shores of Noruora._
> 
> _The wall is believed to have been built anywhere between 6,000-8,000 BC after a generation long war historically referenced to as ‘The Long Night’ where the First Men and an indigenous pygmy hunter-gatherer population, known as “children of the forest”, fought against another ancient tribe thought to have lived in the high tablelands of the Frostfangs. They may have invaded a good portion of Westeros during Winter._
> 
> _After the final ‘Battle of the Dawn’, the Wall was built by the First Men and Westerosi forest hunter-gatherer natives. The Wall itself had been planned much earlier by Bran the Builder although no recording of an exact explanation survives to account for the purpose the Wall had in true. A number of maesters today disagree over how much of a threat the inhabitants of northern Noruora truly presented and whether there was any economic advantage in garrisoning such a border rather than annexing the inhabitants of the Frostfangs._

Sansa too had difficulties believing that the Wall could possibly be built for such superstitious reasons. She was far more inclined to believe that it was meant for outsiders but at the same time could not understand how it had not been more fruitful to expand into the North where there were other resources and access to ports. Surely that had more benefits than to build a massive barrier that kept people out. Intrigued, she continued reading:

> _Nevertheless, later records elucidate the role of the Night’s Watch, a guarding brotherhood that defended and garrisoned the Wall, played in society at the time. Remarkably, it provided a place for unwanted members of society: criminals, minorities, and second sons to exist and be re-educated in an autonomous parallel state. Notably, these records suggest that the Night’s Watch practiced an early form of democracy._
> 
> _While there is thorough documentation of the Night’s Watch, there is little information regarding the Wall itself. Some ancient texts boast, albeit far-fetch, that it was as high as 900 leagues in the air, which would have made it taller than most mountain ranges in Westeros_.

_Well at least Bran the Builder seems to have existed._ Sansa recalled the tales of Bran the Builder in the Age of Heroes. Bran the Builder who had supposedly founded House Stark and its dwellings, Winterfell. As for the the Night's Watch, it had always been a model of governance that Sansa found fascinating. She wondered if with the progress made using _zoklaion_ one day education would be as accessible enough to the point that all could partake in a democracy. Sansa could almost see the Small Council in King's Landing laughing at her. They had mocked and denied more trifling requests when she had been Cersei's intern. _Such a feat would never happen in my lifetime,_ Sansa thought glumly.

She looked at the sundial in the centre of the library and realised that it would soon be evening. She took some books to the reception and asked the old maester about any more books related to the Starks of Winterfell.

“Winterfell?” He asked with several links hanging from the chain around his neck. “Not much on that here in Megrana but there might be some texts in Oldtown about Winterfell. It will take some time before they send them over though. The Oldtown Citadel is falling apart. In fact there’s word that most of the Oldtown library is going to be sent here by the end of the year. Pity they haven’t kept it in better shape.”

Oldtown was a completely abandoned town but it remained intact for the most part. It was now a city of ghosts and one of the abandoned buildings was the ancient Citadel where women had been forbidden and where countless texts had been destroyed in the second century. Some scrolls had been about ancient families, like the Starks, which today were thought to probably be closer to folklore than to history.

“Thank you maester. Do let me know if you can get any books on the Stark family sent over or Northern pedigree history for that matter.”

“Will do, Snow,” said the maester considering her for a moment before saying. “You know, we are never truly alone in this world. Even if it may feel that way at times.”

Sansa gave him a confused look and then it dawned on her. He probably thought she was looking for her long lost family or something of the sort given her last name. Feeling embarrassed she took the books she had checked out into her arms ready to scurry away. “Thank you, maester,” she replied stiffly but politely. “I will keep it in mind.”

———

Sansa had told Arya to meet her at the _Rusty Armour_ early-evening and she was a little nervous about performing anything although she knew it was a good exercise to get over stage fright. She knew that there was little else better than a good orator in the world of diplomacy. But she also wanted to look good. And in truth she wanted to show Clegane just how much of a girl she was _not_.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she had combed her hair until her auburn locks shone glossy like spooled fire. Sansa was not oblivious to her beauty. Despite all the other worries and doubts she had about herself, that was one she did not have. Yet it was also the one feature she had learned to least care about. A flashing memory of Little Finger made her skin crawl if only for an instance. Beauty was a curse, she had learned. She could never be sure why anyone ever _really_ took a liking to her. She often worried that it was only because of her appearance and not because of anything else she had to offer. She thought of Joffrey and she felt her grip tighten on the wooden brush she had combed her hair with, knuckles turning white. She slammed the brush on the vanity, looking at herself, feeling a sudden rush of rage.

_No._ She would not go down that path, those thoughts did not deserve to surface. Breathing in deeply she closed her eyes and then opened them again. In the mirror there was a woman with dark red hair and clear blue eyes. Her skin was pale but not unhealthy, and her cheeks held a rosiness from being outside in the sun. _You are brave and you are resilient._

She looked down at the piece she had written last night after walking back from Vermell. She rubbed the paper between her fingers. Her thoughts had been spinning like a carousel, thoughts running from the recent dream she had to the class with Professor Varys.

She couldn’t help but think of her own experiences in the capital, King’s Landing. Sansa still laughed at that, even now as she read through her poem. Perhaps in some ways, King's Landing was still the King’s Landing of centuries ago. Corruption remained at every turn and although she hadn’t been a ‘lady at court’, like the days of the Iron Throne, navigating the political landscape of King's Landing today was similar in that it required being astute and having a strong set of people skills to show only what you wanted and hide any putative weaknesses. In King's Landing, the weak were the meat the strong devoured…she had learned that the hard way.

_'Teach me…teach me to be strong, to be_ you _…'_ The words echoed in her mind. She was strong, but there had also been no other alternatives.

And then that nonsense about the Starks and Winterfell. Sansa couldn’t understand where she had gotten that from. She had found little to nothing about it in the dusty books of the Citadel. But she couldn’t help but wonder if the ancient scrolls from Oldtown would give greater insight.

_Am I going mad to obsess over this? Truly?_ Perhaps she was, she had distant recollections of hearing the infamous story of Torrhen, The King Who Did Not Kneel. The presumably formidable Northern foe of Aegon the Conqueror. Legend said that Torrhen did not kneel to the Valyrian invader and his dragons. But as it often happens with brave men in legends, in truth he was burnt to a crisp and the legacy of his line, House Stark, with it. Sansa would have been more inclined to believe that Aegon the Conqueror had invented Torrhen to augment the already growing lore surrounding his invasion and conquest of Westeros. The dragons were real, there were remains confirming those. Surely if Winterfell existed, there would have been some remains of those too…no?

———

_3 years ago, King's Landing_

The black skirt she had worn in the attempt to look formal had ended up being too short. She was too tall for it and so rather than reach at the tops of her knees, it snugged and rose to the middle of her thighs. It made her feel painfully self-aware. She knew that she looked more like a schoolgirl than an intern but…it was the most formal outfit she owned.

Since arriving in King's Landing, Sansa had taken all the legal steps necessary to rid herself of her _Auntie_ Lysa’s guardianship. Moreover she had sought out the central orphanage but realised quickly that more than an orphanage it was a correctional centre making little difference between orphans and juvenile delinquents. Even so, it was thanks to them she had clothes, food, and a bed to sleep in.

“Sansa Snow I presume?”

Caught off guard, she turned around at the sound of her name. She had been so engrossed in pulling down her skirt that she had not noted the tip-tap of pattens that came to a halt behind her. A woman elegantly dressed in a dark green jumpsuit with blonde hair pulled into a Southern twist waited for her to answer. Sansa found herself stuttering, “O-oh w-why, y-yes. I’m she.”

“Good, come this way,” the woman ordered as she walked in the dagger thin pattens effortlessly, cat-like leading the way to an office. The decor was decidedly masculine: brown leather arm chairs faced a cherrywood desk, a ceramic wine flagon with two crystal chalices set on a tray placed at the far left, and several bookshelves devoted to military doctrine. The stylish blonde offered Sansa a seat as she gracefully sat on a gold adorned chair.

“Lady Lann—”

“Cersei, please. If you are to work interning for me, you will have have to know me well, _little dove_.”

Sansa felt it was a bit belittling but did not dwell on it—interning with Cersei Lannister was perhaps the most she could ever hope to achieve in her little orphan life. “Yes, La— _Cersei,_ I am honoured to have been selected for an interview.”

“Oh, don’t get the wrong idea. We had several candidates, dear. But none of a… _charismatic_ background. Diversity and integrating the less fortunate and so,” Cersei said with such indifference that Sansa did not think she _meant_ to be cruel.

A smile crossed the older woman’s refined features, “The little _orphan_ from the North.” Green, golden flecked eyes looked her over and met her eyes once more. “Your purpose as my intern will be to be my extension. What is important to me will be important to you. You will be my eyes and ears, and sometimes you will be my written and spoken word. Do as you are told and you will go far. Betray me and…well you best not at all, my sweetling.” Sansa could not decide whether her voice dripped with honey or venom. _Perhaps both._

“Little dove, we have much work to do,” she said condescendingly with a false smile. “You can begin by organising these documents here. Please do it in a… _relevant_ fashion. I do not want to guess what’s in that little head of yours.” Sansa eyed the crates and chests of papers behind the wooden desk. “You will brief me of what’s on those parchments, in your own words every morning before I break my fast. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma— _Cersei._ W-what time should I arrive then?”

“After sunrise. There is a tea room close by that I frequent, _The Roaring Lion._ I will see you there tomorrow.”

Sansa nodded dutifully, understanding and standing up as Cersei also rose from her chair. She bit her lip as she looked at the piles of papers. The older woman began to exit the office when she stopped and turned to say, “Snow?”

Her own wide eyes met narrow green ones. “Do get yourself a proper wardrobe—you’re my intern now, not a winesink serving girl. You will be provided a budget so that you don’t arrive looking like _that_.” She closed the heavy wooden door behind her, leaving Sansa alone amidst the papers, all anxious and confused. She hesitantly stared at the boxes with the several parchments that had the vibrant red seal of _R'hallor Corporation_ painted across the tops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed I've tweaked the summary of the general story a bit. I've also added chapter titles. Hopefully it better conveys what the story is building up to. I know you might be wondering about when the Sandor POVs will be kicking in and I promise they are coming soon! 
> 
> Again, I really do love it when you guys leave comments. It's super appreciated and definitely motivating for me! As always, don't be shy and let me know what you think if you're enjoying it so far. Should you feel so inclined, constructive criticism is welcomed too.


	6. Below The Burning Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has commented, provided kudos, subscribed and/or bookmarked. It's wonderful to be able to share this work with you and more so to know that it's piqued your interest/curiosity. Here's this week's update :)

Arya was excited to have been invited out and more so to see Sansa perform. She was bubbling with enthusiasm and kept asking her questions about what she planned on performing. In a last minute whim, Sansa had decided to bring a wooden lyre in hand. There was a heaviness to the instrument, tethered to a half forgotten memory, kept in a secret recess of her mind. Arya's jovial enthusiasm poked it. A set of maroon eyes, a kite above Visenya's Hill…slumbering beneath the sea; she pushed it all aside. Snippets of memories or otherwise, she did not have the energy to dwell on them.

When they walked through the doors of _The Rusty Armour_ , grey eyes glanced up at them in surprise. “Clegane! Fancy meeting you here,” exclaimed Arya with familiarity.

It was Sansa’s turn to be confused. “You two know each other?” She asked in earnest.

Clegane merely grunted but Arya explained that Clegane, in fact, was none other than one of the instructors at the training pitch she attended. Though he taught broadsword and two-handed sword combat instead of Arya’s preferred Braavosi water-dancing. “You should join, you might like it more than you think.”

A scoff from the scarred barman announced his unrequested opinion. Already annoyed at his churlish manner, Sansa defiantly answered, “Perhaps I shall.”

“And don’t forget the Dothraki dancing,” added Arya reminding Sansa. She nodded and felt her cheeks go warm thinking about what Clegane thought of her dancing Dothraki belly-dances. It was considered a provocative, extremely sensual dance that was better associated with bedroom performances or ones found at brothels. Even so, it was all the raging fad in Megrana these days.

Sansa could feel Clegane’s eyes on her but she disguised her embarrassment as best as she could. “ _Clegane_ ,” she said with an air that was borderline haughty. “Would you happen to have any red wines?”

“Dornish or Arbor?”

Sansa replied without hesitation, “Dornish.” She liked the weight of the full-bodied Dornish sours with their palatable roundness. In her opinion, they could not compare to the Arbor vintages which were more like fruity table wine and lacked sophisticated notes that Sansa appreciated.

Clegane smiled, the scar fascinatingly lagging behind the rest of his face, “Good choice, _Snow_.” It truly was a hideous thing; it disfigured his right-side entirely, even the ear which looked like it had melted into the skin, angry bumpy red fissions looked so unnatural that Sansa felt her hands itch and imagined removing the side of his face as if it were wax. Though the burns no doubt tainted the pleasing aesthetic of his face, he _was_ handsome; he was blessed with sharp masculine features and striking grey eyes. She watched his hands, wiry and massive as they were, deftly pour her a cup of Dornish red.

_It could be worse,_ thought Sansa, perhaps a bit too cynically. _He could have been a disfigured woman._ She momentarily thought of her copy in the dream, beaten and bruised in the face. She then wondered what Clegane’s story was behind the ugly burns.

Sansa delicately grasped the ivory cup, making sure to smell the bouquet of the blood-red vintage, evaluating the gradual gradient at the rim on the liquid. It was likely to be aged a few years. Clegane watched her as she sipped feeling the thickness of the wine in her mouth, the sweet and tart flavours exploding on her tongue harmonically. It was delicious. She saw that the bottle bore a label from a Lemonwood vineyard and spun the wine in her cup lightly. “Thank you, Clegane. It’s a lovely red.”

“Yes,” he rasped hoarsely still looking her straight in the eyes. “That it is…” Sansa felt herself blush wondering if he meant the wine or herself. She privately craved the latter.

“We only host wines from vineyards we’ve gone to ourselves, same with the breweries,” explained the scarred man to both Sansa and Arya. “That Lemonwood vintage is one of the best Dornish reds we’ve had so far. An oasis in the desert; piss on a rock and get a lemon tree the next month.”

Arya smirked quietly at the interaction between them. Sansa suspected that she would soon be asked some further elaboration about her knowing Clegane. She smoothed out the imaginary crinkles on her top, a summer pale green tunic which she had knitted herself.

Sansa felt nervous seeing that the tavern was indeed much better attended than the previous times she had visited, but the wine was helping. She had nearly forgotten the complimentary snack with her drink when she saw Arya’s face of joy at the generous dish Clegane brought out from the kitchen. Arya was now eager to choose a drink of her own and looked at Sansa with wide-eyes, “Snow do you have any extra cash, I pro—”

Rolling her eyes, Sansa interrupted and said, “I better get a discount from those water-dancing classes of yours. Order what you like, Wulf.”

Clearly indecisive about the choices, Clegane poured a sample of his own accord and gave it to Arya to try. “That one’s called Seven Hells, it's a good bitter ale but not for everyone.” Sipping hesitantly, Arya seemed to consider it and then smiled, “That’s not half bad. I’ll have a pint!”

Sansa gave her a sideways _look_ , to which the dark haired orphan swiftly added, “—or a half pint, actually.”

———

She felt her hands clammy with sweat as she sat on the stool in front of the already crowded inn. The lights were dim which helped hide how flushed she was. She looked over at Arya and Clegane. Arya was giving her toothy smile whilst Clegane merely nodded but continued to stare attentively. She could feel herself gulp down the unease. The last time she had sung, as forthright as the lyrics may have been, it was to bite the hand that fed her. Was she prepared to sing again?

Clearing her throat she saw that people were quieting down. She felt parched but ignored it. “I…I wrote this recently thinking on some of the…shifting tides going on today. So much has changed in our realm but it seems to me that somethings never change. I would like to share these thoughts with you. It was a poem,” she explained, shyly tucking an auburn strand behind her ear and blushing furiously. “But I think it’s more of a song now. It’s called ‘Below The Burning Sun’, I hope you like it.” [1]

Silence swept the inn and in that void she sung.

_“When I came down to the South,  
_

_My heart bursting full of song_

_So like a bird of summer days,_

_all too soon to pass away;_

_First I lost all of my feathers,_

_Then I lost this very voice._

_All below the burning sun. "_

She strummed the strings on the small woodharp and began to run her fingers across it in a march like pace.

_“When I saw the small folk dwelling,_

_Huddled in their tiny rooms_

_I thought a snail fared off far better,_

_in a shell of its own doom._

_Oh, among the law’s own shadow_

_The thief, refined, shamelessly blooms._

_All beneath the Red Keep’s son._

_“The shanty rows in Flea Bottom_

_Face to face, oh yes ser!_

_The rows of women_

_single filing, begging_

_For bread or water._

_Distress paints their sunken faces_

_below the Great Sept of Baelor._

_All below the burning sun._

_“I pass a ghost town_

_in my wandering,_

_Thought I would find Death right here._

_Instead he stays among the living,_

_Shredding reason, spreading fear._

_But it’s not Death that buries justice,_

_it’s corruption who reigns, my dear._

_All beneath the Red Keep’s son._

_“Those who say I dream of_

_folly, woven fairy tales I loom. I say_

_in Dorne it may so happen_

_But in King’s Landing, it’s the truth!_

_The lowborn sell their sweat and suffering_

_For the nobles’ cruel abuse._

_For the Seven’s chosen ones._

_“I made my way here to Megrana,_

_the gross distortion still unclear._

_Fleabottom only asks for water,_

_the Realm answers with ruthless steel._

_Above the Keep, the skies grow darker,_

_Smallfolk lives—no one reveres._

_All below the burning sun.”_

Sansa could feel the weight from everyone’s gaze as she finished, some looked praising while others looked thoughtful. She caught Arya’s gaze, the younger girl was grinning proudly making something in Sansa’s chest tighten. She smiled back feeling ineffably elated. It felt like an eternity to her, this small moment in silence that must have been milliseconds, until the entire inn rose to applaud.

It was then that her gaze locked with other grey eyes. Sandor Clegane looked at her in a way that could only be described as _assessing_. A slight hint of a smirk found its way to his lips. Unexpectedly, Sansa recognised what she felt. It was joy—a joy she hadn’t felt in a long, _long_ time.

For the rest of the night Arya and Sansa listened to the other performers. Between performances they chatted with Clegane who too had his own experiences regarding King's Landing. Gruffly, but not mean-spirited, he complimented Sansa and her song. Sansa felt herself grow flush blaming it first on the heady air of the inn rather than the praise from the man who had haunted her heated dreams.

"I suppose there is a dearth of good corruption songs," said Sansa laughing to herself as she looked over at the dusty panel of _Florian and Jonquil_. Flickering candle-light casted dancing shadows across the painting. Clegane followed Sansa's line of sight, he snorted, "A fool and his cunt. _Bugger that_ —no lack of songs there."

Sansa felt her eyes get small as she continued to look at the panel and thought of the songs and stories she enjoyed back in the orphanage of Noruora. She smiled nostalgically and said, "Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight used to be my very favourite."

"I was more partial to Aemon the Dragonknight, myself," said Daenerys who had now arrived accompanied by Drogo. He took the opportunity to ruffle Arya's hair whilst she drank her bitter ale. He nodded to both herself and Clegane.

" _Khal_ ," greeted Clegane with a grin as he prepared a horn and poured a milky spirit into it. The tall bronzed man chuckled and retorted, " _Jano."_ Drogo seemed pleased when Clegane handed him the drink. Daenerys ordered honeyed wine for herself.

With both men before her, Sansa could see that despite similar height and build, each man carried himself differently. It was clear that Drogo held a natural confidence that Clegane replaced with biting intimidation. Dany smiled appraisingly at the both of them and stated the obvious, "You two know each other."

Arya was the first to perk up and add, "I spar with the both of them!"

Sansa smiled and said, "Drogo is not the one teaching Dothraki dancing, I take it."

The bronzed man choked on his drink while Clegane threw his head back in laughter. A laugh that she couldn't help think sounded like snarling dogs.

"The only dancing this one knows how to do is horizontally, little bird."

Drogo looked flustered whilst Dany actually chortled full heartedly at the jape. "Seems they've caught on to you, _shekh ma shieraki anni."_

Arya elbowed Sansa in the ribs not so subtly, watching the pair exchange loving looks. Sansa shifted on her stool uncomfortably and cleared her throat. She took the opportunity to make conversation and ask the barman his thoughts on the Bread Riots.

"You sang it yourself, little bird. Steel is the realm's answer. It's the way of the world—sharp steel and strong arms rule, don't ever believe any different."

Drogo lifted his horn in agreement, "The strong rule here and beyond the black salt sea. It is known."

"Should we just rob and kill each other then? " Said Dany nursing her drink in her hands. "I hardly think they'll be anyone left _to_ _rule._ "

"Power resides where people _believe_ it to reside," started Sansa while grazing her index finger on the smooth rim of her cup. She then met Clegane's grey eyes, "But there is no power if there is no one left to _obey_."

Arya cocked her head sideways and asked, "Like a mummer's show then?"

Four pair of eyes were now staring at the youngest of their company. Sansa felt a jaundiced smile sneak on her lips. "If it appears powerful, that's as good a promise as any. Why else would people believe in the gods?"

"Sheep," snapped Clegane with contempt. "So that the wolves can eat mutton."

"If a sheep casts a shadow the size of a dragon," put forth Dany, "will a wolf still try to eat it?"

Clegane smirked at that. "A dog can smell a lie and dogs run with wolves."

"Do dogs and lions _breed_?" A dangerous glint shone in Drogo's eyes as he now challenged Clegane. "Why did the mighty hound protect the lion cub?"

_Hound? Lion cub?_ This was taking an awkward turn. Sansa stared transfixed as both men sized each other up. The barman's grey eyes burned a glare at the Dothraki but Drogo did not back down. He leaned in and said, "When a horse recognises a lamb, he _mounts_ it."

"Don't see or hear any buggering bells in _your_ braid, _khal,_ " growled Clegane and then spat on the floor behind the bar. " _Fuck_ the Lannisters. Fuck Cersei and _fuck Joffrey_."

Sansa felt like the air in her lungs had been knocked out of her. A familiar tightness constricted her throat in hearing the names of those who had turned her life into collateral damage; a mere by-product to some larger machination she had guilelessly stumbled upon. The soft voice from her dream-self resounded in her mind. _‘You sound so angry, like…like_ the Hound _.’_

Dany was the one to notice the sudden paleness that overtook her complexion; she felt cold. "Sansa? Are you alright?"

Swallowing the caught gulp in her throat, she opened and closed her mouth not knowing how to react. Dread nipped at her heart. The hidden corner quivered in her mind. The wedding, her future, Little Finger, a berry-stained smile—

_Do not go there._ She needed to breathe; distantly she felt Arya's hand on her own but all she could do was think, _Will I never be rid of them?_

In the midst of her panic emerged a tiny window of clarity. She sought Clegane's gaze—intense and agog to hear the question that she guarded; his eyes beseeched her to expel it from between her lips. "How do you know Cersei and Joffrey?"

His right-cheek reverberated with every involuntary twitch of his mouth—a slave to his thoughts, a traitor to his will. With a raspy voice that threatened to come unhinged he quietly answered, "I was that cunt's _sworn shield_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The song presented in this fanfiction has been inspired, interpreted, and shamelessly adjusted to fit an ASoIaF context but it's true original was written by the incredible songwriter and composer Violeta Parra. The original song, titled "Arriba Quemando el Sol", was translated/interpreted and then altered by myself to be singable should anyone be so inclined. :)
> 
> Violeta Parra's work, among others, has strongly inspired this story so it certainly won't be the last that I weave her into it. Much of the story rides on the idea that Sansa has a penchant for music and song—a strength and influence which by no means should be flippantly dismissed.
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed this chapter. If you liked it, let me know your thoughts and as usual, I welcome constructive criticism too.


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